


For Food, For Flesh

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Mud (2012), True Detective, Zombieland (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Body Horror (zombies), Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical swearing, Crossover, Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Paternal Relationships, Reunion Sex, Suicide (mentioned), Violence, post-s01e08 TD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Before the end of the world, Tallahassee's name was Martin Hart.(OR: Marty and Rust get separated when the apocalypse comes, and they both assume the worst)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [食与肉](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9327590) by [fragilelittleteacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup), [hieroglyphics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hieroglyphics/pseuds/hieroglyphics)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follows the events of TD s01e08, and includes scenes/ characters from Zombieland (starring Woody Harrelson), and Mud (starring Matthew McConaughey). The TD timeline is somewhat different, and Marty and Rust are both younger than they realistically would be otherwise...  
> enjoy!!

“Worst part of zombieland?”

Columbus laughed shortly. “You mean, other than the fact that I shot Bill Murray?”

Tallahassee smiled bitterly, and they all knew that he was going to say one of two things; either he was going complain about the Twinkies again, or he was going to state the bleeding fucking obvious. What was the worst part about Zombieland? _Everything._ Christ, they were surrounded by corpses. If the things hadn’t been walking around, there would’ve been mountains of bodies piled high into the hideously blue sky sky. Like skyscrapers of flesh and teeth and muscle and eyes; pieces of loved ones and children and innocent old people, turned to lumps of human meat.

If only that had’ve been the case– if only the fucking things had been immobile. Then their lives might’ve been easier.

Tallahassee took a pull of his beer, and sighed quietly. They all looked at him expectantly, waiting for the inevitable speech about how he needed a godamn Twinkie. It was expected, and anticipated. Their sanity relied on his insane optimism and warped priorities; he was a walking, talking, shooting comedy show, and they loved him for it.

“That’s easy,” he said quietly, “losing my partner is the worst part.”

Everyone paused, and looked at each other, shocked at finding seriousness where they had expected humour. There was a swell of emotion in Tallahassee’s voice, one that sounded far too fragile for his rough hillbilly personality. No one quite knew how to proceed.

“Oh, you,” Columbus said eventually, bowing to his usual need to fill silences, “You had a girlfriend?”

Tallahassee shook his head slowly, and had a drink of his beer again.

“No. Boyfriend.”

Everyone’s eyes widened. Columbus opened his mouth to say something, anything, in reply to that, but he couldn’t think of one single word. Little Rock and Wichita exchanged a surprised look, but they appeared less traumatised than Columbus felt. He’d always known that most people– women especially– were more mature than him, and knew how to handle delicate situations better than he could. Which was why he desperately looked over at Wichita, silently begging her to speak. She met his stare with raised eyebrows.

“Didn’t know you were gay,” Wichita said, somehow managing to make the statement sound gentle.

Tallahassee smiled sadly. Columbus blinked; he’d never seen that expression on his face before. It was weirdly disquieting.

“Neither did I, for a long time,” Tallahassee murmured, his eyes dazed, focussing on something very far away, “I was married, before I met him. Had a wife, two kids… don’t even know if my little girls are still alive.”

They all sat in stunned silence.

Death, loss, mourning– it was all a standard part of zombieland but, somehow, it’d seemed that Tallahassee was apart from that. Somehow, it’d seemed that he was above it, better than the rest of them. Columbus had genuinely never imagined that Tallahassee had a horror story at his back; he’d preferred to think of him as a lone ranger, a person of untouchable violence and obscure world views, whose only concerns revolved around Twinkies and ammunition.

Having been proven wrong, he reached out, and patted Tallahassee on the shoulder twice. A masculine gesture that wasn’t likely to dent Talahassee's pride. In the face of this newest revelation, Columbus wondered if Tallahassee had ever been the kind of guy who did hugs.

He doubted it.

“What was his name?” Little Rock asked, her voice lighter than everyone else’s, “Your boyfriend, what was his name?”

Tallahassee looked down at his hands, tapping his thumb against the beer bottle. He shifted uncomfortably where he was sprawled, looking as if he were considering whether or not to answer.

“…Rustin Cohle.” The name rolled off his tongue gently, tenderly. He smiled, looking more upset than Columbus had ever seen him. “But everybody just called him Rust.”

“That’s a funny name,” Little Rock said flippantly, with an easy smile.

Tallahassee grinned, and laughed. “Yeah, guess so.”

“How’d you meet him?” Columbus asked, finally finding his voice. His words were stilted and awkward, but thankfully that was how he generally spoke, so no one noticed.

“On the job.”

“What did you used to do?” Wichita asked, curiosity colouring her tone. Columbus knew how she felt; he was afraid of asking Tallahassee too many questions, but he wanted to know this story. He wanted to know what lay behind Tallahassee’s violently upbeat personality.

“I was a cop.”

They all exclaimed, stunned; “What?” Little Rock demanded, as Wichita said, “You’re kidding!”

“I wouldn’t have called that,” Columbus added, feeling almost irritated that his understanding of one of three people he knew on the entire planet was now so redundant.

“Mm. I was, uh,” Tallahassee rubbed at his forehead, sighed heavily, “homicide police. Nasty stuff. Tell you what, the shit humans can do? That scares me way fuckin’ more than any zombie. The last case I ever took still gives me nightmares.”

Columbus and the sisters nodded in unison, considering that. Columbus didn’t exactly feel the need to disagree; people had always terrified him about the same amount as zombies– but, then again, almost everything had. They all picked up their monopoly money, returning their attention to the game, assuming Tallahassee’s moment of personal vulnerability was over, and that he would go back to his usual shitty self.

But Tallahassee didn’t move, didn’t pick up his money. Columbus looked at him, frowning uncomfortably; he wasn’t sure whether he liked this sudden shift in personality. He’d almost gotten used to the whole crazy-hillbilly thing, and the security of having someone strong to rely on was a very valuable thing in zombieland. Tallahassee was their leader, their fucking trailblazing warrior; this was a warzone, and they needed him to be strong. They all needed to be strong.

“…Tallahassee?” Little Rock asked quietly. “You wanna play the game?”

Tallahassee kept staring into the distance.

“Rust had a mind like no one else,” he whispered, suddenly, “He was so fuckin’ smart… Ran rings around me, most days.”

Columbus swallowed. He fidgeted, the monopoly money dry and flaky against his sweaty palms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, wondering whether that was the right thing to say. Was there ever a right way to express sympathy towards someone whose partner had been swept away in a tide of undead world domination?

“Ain’t no one that should be sorry but me. Everythin’ was my fault, right from the beginning.” Tallahassee replied flatly. He blinked, his face becoming animated and alert again; there were tears sparkling in his eyes, and he swiped at them as he stood.

“Better go get some fuckin’ popcorn if we’re gonna be tellin’ stories all night,” he muttered as he walked away.

 

***

 

Marty leaned against the sink while the popcorn hummed and snapped in the microwave. He heard phantom gunshots. He saw the sculpted edge of a face, turned half-into the light, and the sway of brown hair. He reached his fingers out, as if he could touch him again; his lips parted, as if he could kiss him again.

His hand slammed down against the bench. He bowed his head, slouching his shoulders forward, curling in on himself as he started to cry. He held the sobs in, pressing a hand against his mouth. He'd been doing so well; he hadn't thought of Rust for weeks. He'd killed zombies, smashed things, screamed into the night, and drank himself unconscious, turning entirely into Tallahassee and leaving himself behind in ashes– and it had been  _fine,_ because he hadn't seen that beautiful face painted behind his eyelids, smiling in a rare moment of unrestrained adoration.

 _"Christ, Marty,"_ Rust had whispered that day, as they lay in bed,  _"I love you, motherfucker."_  

 Marty's breath hitched. He thought of his children. Of Maggie.

He wondered if any of them were still alive.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“You,” Columbus snarled, “are a giant cock-blocking robot… like, developed in a secret fucking government lab.”

Marty grinned wryly as he watched the sisters’ car speed away, dodging the abandoned vehicles and bodies that littered the road. That had to be one of the most practically frustrating things about zombieland; no easy navigation anywhere. And highways were absolute death traps, because you had no line of sight at all. He found himself wondering whether the sisters would be alright, but then he fondly remembered the stunt they’d pulled in that grocery store. They’d be fine, crafty bitches that they were.

“I know,” he replied calmly.

“What the fuck, man!” Columbus threw up his hands, probably in attempt to appear at least marginally threatening. “She’s literally the last woman on earth! On _planet fucking earth!_ Why did you have to do that to me!”

“Don’t get your virgin ass all in a twist, calm the hell down,” Marty waved him off, sighing, “we’ll run into them again.”

“How the fuck can you know _that?”_

“Well, if we ain’t gonna run into them, we can damn well go and _get them,_ because we know where they’re headed,” Marty paused for effect, eyeballing him, “knucklehead.”

Columbus blinked, as if he hadn’t considered that.

Marty snorted, amused. “Come help me go over the supplies. Then, we can go get your girlfriend.”

He walked away, inside the house. Columbus eventually followed, embarrassedly muttering something about Wichita not being his girlfriend. Marty smirked, amused, but he had to admit that he envied the whole innocent-youth thing the kid managed to keep up, even in a goddamn apocalypse. He wished he could love like that again. So freely, so absolutely.

He resolved not to think about that shit any more.

Damn, he hoped Bill Murray had been a fan of vodka.

 

***

 

They found the fucking jackpot.

Bill Murray had stocked up his house to the absolute extreme. Tins, cans, non-perishables, vacuum-sealed packs of dried fruit and meat… fuck, he had everything. It was spectacular. And it meant they could live here for at least a month without needing to do food runs.

“Maybe he was, like, a survivalist or something,” Columbus excitedly theorised as he stood in the middle of the massive pantry, “this is fucking great.”

‘Yeah,” Marty replied with a wide grin and a hacking laugh, as he reached out for a bottle of Absolute, “sure fuckin’ is, kid. Sure fuckin’ is. Shame you killed ‘im, eh?”

He didn’t need to turn around to know that Columbus was staring judgementally at him.

“Maybe you should give the drinking a rest?”

“It’s the end of the world, why the fuck would I do that?”

“I don’t know, I guess, like,” Nervousness filled Columbus’ voice, and Marty was almost amused at how easy it was to spook him, “you know, if we have to go get Wichita and Little Rock, then we’ll probably have to take turns driving and-”

“Do me a favour, you shithead, and stop talking.” He unscrewed the cap of the bottle in one swift pull, his knuckles tight; he liked the way that felt, the crack of the cap separating from the neck of the bottle, “we’ll go get them after a lil’ fun, a’ight?”

He turned around, grinning, holding up the bottle like a prize. Columbus looked unimpressed, but that was hardly unusual.

“You know, this feels less and less like a democracy every day,” Columbus muttered.

“Who the everlovin’ fuck said this was a democracy?”

“Uh, the constitution-”

Marty threw back his head and laughed. “Christ, you’re fuckin’ funny! What, the constitution of _zombieland?_ Oh god, I’m glad I have you around, kiddo,” he turned to go, clapping Columbus on the shoulder as he went, “you’re all the fuckin’ comedy I have left.”

 

***

 

They got smashed.

With every pull of alcohol, reality slipped further and further away. They could well enough believe they were in a normal world, not one that was full of empty houses and abandoned stores. They could forget about televisions that had been left turned on and were playing to unoccupied rooms, music that would never be heard by human ears again, and preschools that were full of tiny bodies. They could believe that horror stories were just tales, instead of their lives. But, then again, Marty had been living in a horror story even before the fucking apocalypse; he still had nightmares about the Yellow King, about satanic symbols and swirls and piles of childrens’ clothing. On the worst nights, the darkest and most terrible nights, he remembered that video. The one Rust had held with gloved fingers and turned his back on the moment it started playing.

Marty felt the room tilting, spinning on an invisible axis. The bed was swelling under him, embracing him in a warm cradle of fabric. He hadn’t slept on a bed like this in so damn long.

Columbus, lying next to him, stretched his arms above his head. His elbow hit Marty in the face, and Marty waved him away, swatting a hand in his general direction. Their hands tangled in a juvenile slapping match, before they both returned to a lazy stillness. Marty felt his hand accidentally brush the skin of Columbus’ hip, where his t-shirt was riding up; he jerked his arm away as if he’d been burned.

If Columbus noticed the movement, he didn’t comment.

They lay there in silence. Marty felt vaguely nauseous, and he let his eyes fall closed.

“My name’s Marty,” he found himself saying quietly, “Marty Hart.”

Columbus didn’t reply, and for a second Marty thought he hadn’t heard. Then, Columbus laughed.

“Anyone ever told you your name sounds like hardy-har?”

Marty grinned. “Anyone ever told you you’re a little shit?”

Columbus laughed louder. “You have, yeah.”

They both laughed, until their bellies were sore, until their throats were tight. Marty lifted his arms, stretched, and then pressed the heels of his hands to his closed eyes. He couldn’t quite tell what emotions were filling him, pumping through his veins. He was feeling everything at once. Hysterical. Feverish. Frantic.

“Hey man, you okay?”

Marty breathed in slowly, shakily.

“I keep thinkin’ he might be alive, somewhere out there. I didn’t actually see… see it happen, so… maybe…”

He could hear the pathetic, desperate hope in his voice. And he hated it, hated how much he wanted to see Rust again.

“Yeah, man,” Columbus murmured, “I know. I know.”

And he did. They all did. Marty felt knuckles gently press against his thigh, the back of Columbus’ hand touching against fabric in a gentle expression of empathy. He started to get up, as a sob built in his throat, but he’d drunk too much, and he nearly blacked out the moment he went vertical. He fell back down immediately.

Columbus took his hand. Marty closed his eyes.

“Just… stay. It’ll be okay.” Columbus slurred tiredly, and Marty knew he was talking to himself as well; thinking of his friends, his parents. “We’ll find him. We’ll find them all.”

A lump built in Marty’s throat, because he knew it was a lie. And he knew Columbus believed it.

“Yeah,” he whispered, “sure.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

When the apocalypse hit, Rust had been in Arkansas.

Marty had been in Louisiana.

Rust hadn’t planned to be gone long; he’d been visiting an old fisherman named Tom Blankenship, in De Witt. The guy had practically raised Rust when his father had been too busy living neck-deep in his paranoia. All Rust had been planning to do was have a few beers, sit in contemplative silence for a few days, and then leave. For old time’s sake. He knew what it meant to be lonely, and Tom was getting on in years.

But Tom had gotten bit.

The disease had spread from the townies, and the old man had been unlucky enough to have been making a supply run when D-Day arrived. Rust had been forced to flee back to the Arkansas River people, retreat to the safety of floating homes that possessed at least twenty firearms per household. He’d skipped the denial stage of grieving, because staring down at Tom’s ferocious, slackened dead face had inspired him to quickly accept his situation.

How was that for loyalty and love? He’d had to kill the only other man he’d ever called Pops.

By the time he’d run back to the River, most people were dead, floating in the water with unnaturally white skin, quickly disappearing downstream. He’d gathered several shotguns and his wits, and high-tailed it back to Louisiana. Burst into Marty’s house, _their_ house, guns blazing, nearly vomiting with the intensity of the fear that was choking him– and he’d found nothing. Absolutely nothing. No one home, no one waiting for him.

The chair in the lounge room, Marty’s chair, was overturned. Rust had stared down at that chair, horrified, and the world had slowly settled into something ugly, something hideous and unavoidable. A pure horror, the kind he'd only known a handful of times, had seized him, and he hadn't been able to move for the longest moment. Then the nausea had overtaken him, and he’d fallen to his knees, emptied his guts onto the carpet. Kneeling as if he were praying, panting through the taste of acid, staring into the distance.

He hadn't been able to cry.

Before he left, he took a photo of them off the nightstand. Yes, he was a nihilistic prick who believed that life meant nothing at all, but he had loved Marty, and he wasn’t going to give that up just because the world had fallen into insanity. He needed a reason not to kill himself, for as long as he could resist the temptation. Or, alternatively, he’d need a motivation to end it when there was nothing left to stay alive for. Maybe, he thought… he could meet Marty again. On the other side.

Fuck. That was a deep kind of desperation he’d only ever considered once before.

 

***

 

He wasn’t sure why he went back to De Witt, Arkansas. He told himself it was because zombies couldn’t swim, but the truth was that he needed some kind of home to spend his final days in– and Alaska had too many people, was too far away to risk.

Back on the Arkansas River, on a tiny island, he found a reason to live.

His reason was two small boys hiding in a ramshackle house. One was called Ellis, with ratty dark hair and darker eyes, who smiled easily but became unreadable and silent at the flip of a coin. He was old beyond his years, in a way that wasn’t caused by trauma, but by an innate cleverness that had likely been there since he was born. He’d lost both his mother and father in the apocalypse, but youth had saved him from suicide or despair. He was young enough to want to survive.

The other boy was called Neckbone. He had a shaved head, crooked teeth, and a hard persona to match his hillbilly name. Still, he was intelligent, and resourceful. He’d never had parents, so he was dealing with the end of the world even better than Ellis.

Rust had pulled his stolen boat onto the sandy shore of the island, and then frozen still when he saw two figures ahead. He’d thought they were zombies, and had instinctually started to reach for his pistol. He blinked in surprise when he realised the figures were two dirty, thin boys- one of whom was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at him.

“Stay right where you are, mister,” Neckbone had commanded in a voice that was surprisingly steady. He was the one holding the gun. Beside him, Ellis gripped a wooden bat that had been made into a formidable weapon via the addition of many sharpened nails.

“I ain’t no zombie,” Rust breathed, unable to keep a smile from his face as he realised there were two actual human beings standing in front of him, “god, it’s good to see you boys.”

Neckbone had hesitated, and then lowered the gun. They didn’t come any closer.

“What’s your name?” Ellis asked, flatly.

Rust hesitated. He thought of Tom, of the nickname the old man had once given him, when he was nothing but a kid who enjoyed getting his hands dirty.

“Mud,” he said, “call me Mud.”

He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want to say his name aloud. Maybe he wanted to move on from himself, pretend to be someone else. Forget everything but who he could be for these boys. Forget Marty, forget their house in Louisiana. Forget the Yellow King and Carcosa.

“What ‘bout you?” He asked, advancing towards them cautiously, hands floating at waist-level in a lazy expression of surrender, “What’re your names?”

“I’m Neckbone. This is Ellis.”

“A’ight, nice to meet you. Your parents here?”

Neither boy answered, and Rust licked his lips, nervous with the weight of responsibility that hit him.

“Okay then,” he said, making a decision, “take me to where you boys been stayin’.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He thought a lot about God.

The hallucinations came like visions, knocking him down to his knees as if forcing him to pray, shoving him down to consider the depth of the world and the inevitability of the end. Was the world always destined to end this way? Had the world ended this way before, and humanity was just repeating itself? Was this a Holy reckoning? A punishment for all the bad that humanity had done? Rust fucking doubted it. He’d seen children with wild, unnaturally pale eyes, gnawing at flesh, their faces covered with blood and entrails like blotted strawberry jam; what had the children ever done wrong? What sin had they committed?

He supposed he’d been asking that question for a long time.

When he thought of his daughter, then, he thought that perhaps she’d been saved. That, maybe, her death had been merciful. God had spared her the sin of becoming a monster, or the impurity seeing death incarnate. No one could survive this. Even just seeing this nightmare was enough to corrupt any innocence beyond salvation.

It would’ve been easy, had he been able to end it, and join her in the darkness. He wanted to.

But he couldn’t, because he had two fourteen year-old boys to look after. He wasn’t their father, and they were too fiercely independent to see themselves as his sons, but it was something close to paternal. They were practically smart, those boys, and they learned fast. They knew how to fish, they knew how to use a boat, they knew how to fire guns. They could repair engines. They could start fires, put them out, and hide the smoke well enough to ensure it wasn’t seen from a distance. Ironically, these children were possibly the best people to be stranded with at the end of the world.

Fuck. Rust hated himself for viewing them as assets.

Truth was, he loved those boys. Wanted to protect them. Wanted to ensure they’d never have to pull the trigger on anything that remotely resembled a human. Which was why he stayed up most nights, keeping watch. That way, they could sleep, and he could continue to believe he deserved to live. He slept in the daytime, when he could, but he didn’t really need to, and he didn’t like leaving the boys alone.

 

***

 

Days passed strangely during the apocalypse.

They played card games, read books, and built things in the rare moments that they could relax. They talked sometimes, when the mood was lighter, but usually just sat in silence. One day, Neckbone built a triangle of sticks, pointed to it and called it a tepee; the expression on Rust’s face must have been so haunted, so horrified, that the kid had known it meant something bad. He’d kicked it over, muttered, ‘ain’t nothin’ special’.

Rust had adored him for that.

 

***

 

Rust shaved his moustache and beard, cut his hair, to cope with the heat. The moment he looked in the mirror, he knew it was a mistake. He saw a younger version of himself. The man who’d met Marty in the Louisiana State Police Department, and slowly fallen in love. The memories had come for him, had him taking in trembling breaths, before a movement in the mirror’s reflection had startled him back into reality.

“Yikes, mister,” Neckbone had said, coming up behind him in the bathroom, “you look somethin’ pretty with that hair all gone.”

It was a joke, a mature one that made Rust grin despite himself. He looked away from the mirror, and down at Neckbone.

“You got a nice sense of humour there, boy,” he drawled, patting Neckbone on the head as he ambled out of the room. Neckbone swatted his hand away.

“Ain’t no boy,” Neckbone called after him, “I’m a grown man, y’know!”

Rust felt his chest ache with a heavy sadness.

“Sure you are, Neckbone,” he replied quietly, too quietly for Neckbone to hear, “sure you are.”

 

***

 

One afternoon, Rust woke up to see Ellis looking down at him. The boy was sitting on a wicker chair, sprawled half-off it, elbows on his knees, leaning forward. He sat like a man, patient and still, lacking the energy and excitement that kids his age usually displayed. Rust didn’t like how fast these two were having to grow up.

“Mornin’, Ellis,” Rust sighed, rolling onto his side and rubbing his eyes.

Ellis nodded in reply. He didn’t feel the need to babble much.

“You got a missus, sir?”

Rust dropped his hand, and considered him silently. He wondered whether to tell the truth or not. Some of these river towns hadn’t been known for having the most politically-correct views, and he didn’t want to scare these boys away by telling them he was a queer. Wouldn’t be their fault, to be afraid, if it was how they’d been brought up.

“No,” he replied slowly, “not anymore. We divorced way before this all happened.”

Ellis gave no reply. Rust raised an eyebrow.

“Somethin’ else you gotta say?”

“I saw the photo you got. Under your pillow.” Ellis’ eyes flickered momentarily to the side, and then returned to Rust’s face. “That man there. Who’s he?”

“…No one important.”

It was the wrong answer to give him, because this boy was smart. In fact, the lack of surprise in his dark eyes suggested he’d known the true answer before he even asked.

“I ain’t got no problem with it," Ellis murmured, "you ain't a bad man. I know that, for sure."

Rust held his gaze, and then slowly nodded.

Ellis smiled, sweetly and gently, a pure kindness in his eyes that Rust had never seen before. How remarkable, that there should be someone so good, in the midst of everything so bad. This boy, right here, was the only evidence of a miracle Rust had ever seen.

Ellis got up, went to walk away. Rust reached out, fingers closing around a thin wrist. The boy stopped, and looked down at him curiously.

“…You’re a good man, Ellis,” Rust whispered, smiling, finding that tears had begun to rise in his eyes, “I’m sorry you can’t grow up proper, like you deserve.”

Ellis smiled again, and that expression was cutting right to Rust’s core. He hadn’t cried since finding that chair tipped over in Marty’s house– and maybe he’d been in shock, until this moment, but suddenly tears were spilling down his cheeks, and he couldn’t breathe.

Ellis looked panicked. “Mister…”

“It’s alright,” Rust tried to say, his voice catching in his throat. He sat up, hid his face in his hands, and tried to stop crying, “I’m fine, just… go help Neckbone with dinner, would you? I’ll be,” he hissed in a sharp breath, “I’ll be out soon.”

Ellis didn’t move. Just when Rust was about to tell him, _go away, leave so I can be strong for you, and you don’t have to see me as the weak man I really am,_ a pair of small arms reached around him, a chest pressing against his side, a child’s face against his neck. Rust trembled as Ellis hugged him, and the pain in his chest only got worse, and he was sobbing, crying just as loudly as he’d cried that day outside the hospital after the Yellow King had cut him deep in the gut, after he’d died and been denied a reunion with his baby girl–

He wanted to tell Ellis to leave. He wanted to stop crying.

But he couldn’t.

 

***

 

Eventually, the sobs stopped.

He felt dehydrated, cried-out. He pulled away from Ellis, and when he looked at the boy he was heartbroken to see the tear tracks down his small face. He pulled him close again, distraught by how fragile and tiny Ellis was, how one of his hands fit so entirely around the back of Ellis' head.

“I got you, boy,” he murmured, “I’m sorry you had to see that. I got you.”

Over Ellis’ shoulder, he saw Neckbone hesitating in the doorway, small hands making fists with the edge of his singlet. He looked tormented and afraid, and his blue eyes were swimming with unshed tears. Rust smiled brokenly, held out an arm to him.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Neckbone did, and Rust held both the boys against him as they sniffed and cried. They were a warm huddle of safety, and he felt, for the first time in eternity, that he was part of a family again.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

After Pacific Playland, Wichita and Columbus fell in love.

Marty ran, because he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t handle Wichita’s tanned brown arm slung over Columbus’ shoulder, their lips meeting randomly throughout conversations, their eyes locked in expressions of hopelessly devout adoration. In this dry, dusty hellhole, they had found their heaven, and he was alone. Alone without Rust, alone without his daughters. Alone with his nightmares and his alcoholism. He’d tried to find solace in nicotine, but cigarettes reminded him too much of Rust.

He'd crushed the packet of smokes under his heel and then set them on fire with the lighter.

He told Columbus and the sisters that he was going home to Louisiana, to retrieve some of his stuff that he’d abandoned when the disease had hit. He didn’t tell them that all he really wanted was the photo on his nightstand, the one of him and Rust leaning against each other on a beach somewhere, Rust grinning with sarcastic unwillingness at the camera, and Marty beaming like the idiot he was, believing they had forever in their hands, the rest of their lives to spend together. That had been a good day. A beautiful day. They'd got a Japanese tourist to photograph them, and then Rust had paid the guy a small tip before he left. Rust had always been funny like that. Small acts of random kindness. Marty had teased him for it, and then kissed him. They'd been so fucking happy.

He didn't know whether he could relive those memories around anyone else, because he knew he'd cry, and his pride couldn't handle one more hit. He needed to be strong, he needed to believe that he was okay– so, yeah, he ran. He ran from the only people on the planet he knew, the only people he could call his friends. He was regretting the decision the moment he set off in the early hours of the morning, but it was also a damn good feeling, being cut loose like that. Getting to be by himself, and not have to be around Columbus and Wichita, and be constantly reminded of what he'd lost.

Shame the motherfuckers insisted on coming with him.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?” He demanded, when he stopped the yellow Hummer and confronted Wichita, Columbus, and Little Rock, who’d been following him in the black Cadillac Escalade.

“You won’t survive by yourself,” Wichita replied shortly, a shotgun hanging casually from her right hand. Beside her, Little Rock was spinning in a slow circle, keeping an eye out for any stray zombies.

“The fuck I won’t, I managed fine before any of you idiots joined me-”

“Yeah, well, we’re coming with you, so deal with it.” Columbus interrupted, sounding far less convincing or resolute than his girlfriend, “We want to help you get home.”

Marty glared dryly at him. He didn’t want company. He didn’t want this young fucking couple and their declarations of undying love. He didn’t want Little Rock and her corrupted innocence, reminding him way too much of Audrey and the bitter young woman she’d become.

But, if he was being brutally honest, the prospect of being alone was hardly any better.

“Fine,” he growled back, “follow in the damn car. Flash your lights to communicate.”

He turned his back on them before they could demand to know why he was so fucking irritated.

 

***

 

It took them nine hours to get there.

The only trouble they encountered on the drive was a hoard of zombies that approached from the front. Marty floored the Hummer and sent them flying, over the windscreen and in all directions. Their flesh and blood and rotten insides splattered everywhere, and he whistled a merry tune as he turned his windscreen wipers on, ignoring the smell of putrid intestines. He was highly amused at the demented scene, until he remembered how Rust had whistled as he made eggs in the morning, half-dressed in undone jeans and no shirt.

That had shut him up real quick.

He turned on the car display, put on a CD. It was Led Zeppelin, of course. The classics never got old– especially when there was no more music being made, anywhere on the godforsaken planet. He listened to Dazed and Confused, one of his favourites, singing along as loudly as he could. He sped down the highway, flooring it, going so fast that the car started to float over bumps and potholes. He was hurtling towards the end, towards a death that he knew would be bloody and slow.

But Christ if it wasn’t an attractive option, if it meant he’d see Rust again.

 

***

 

When they reached Louisiana, they all knew that they had to expect trouble; cities were suicide, even the smaller population centres. Both cars stopped outside the city border, ditching the Cadillac in favour of the Hummer.

“Now,” Marty said as he started the car, “we’re comin’ in on a fairly crowded area. I did my fair share of killin’ before I high-tailed it outta here, but we gotta assume this place is gonna be swarmin’ regardless. In and out, you hear? We park outside the house, I run in, and you guys cover me.”

“You don’t want someone to come in with you?” Columbus asked.

“Well damn, how noble of you,” Marty said, driving slowly forward, “you volunteering?”

Columbus blushed darkly. “Well-”

“I’ll do it,” Wichita said, smiling sweetly at Columbus as she patted his thigh. They shared a kiss in the backseat, sitting a little closer.

Marty clenched his jaw, held the steering wheel tighter. Little Rock, riding in shotgun, frowned at him. He ignored her, and focussed on creeping forward through the town. A few zombies were standing around, but had decomposed past the point of noticing their car travelling so slowly and quietly.

“If we be as quiet as possible, we might just avoid trouble.” Marty muttered, “I say, on the way out, we throw a few grenades behind us. Kill these fuckers dead, waddaya say?”

Wichita and Columbus nodded in unison, and Little Rock regarded him with a blank expression and a knowing look in her eye. She seemed sad.

“Sounds good,” she said, eventually. He swallowed nervously, and met her eyes. She nodded, as if she understood him, and then looked out the window again. He realised that she must’ve been pretty damn lonely too. Fucking hell, puberty was hard enough on kids without having to go through it during the apocalypse.

“Hey,” he said, “I know a pretty swell gun dealership down in these parts. They used to sell some nice pieces, custom-made guns. Got jewels and gold in ‘em and everythin’. Real fancy shit. You reckon you might want one?”

Excitement lit up Little Rock’s face. “Really?”

“Well hell yeah, little lady,” he answered, and she beamed at him.

“Thanks, Marty,” she replied.

He frowned, and looked accusingly over his shoulder at Columbus, who shrugged innocently.

“Sorry, I… accidentally told them your name.”

Marty turned back to the windscreen, sighed heavily, as if he were annoyed; he only just managed to keep the smile from his lips, as he heard someone using his real name so casually in conversation. This trip back home was hurting him in ways he couldn’t have described aloud, but damn it was nice to feel like himself again.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The plan didn’t work out the way Marty had intended.

Louisiana was quiet as fuck, contrary to their expectations, so everyone followed him into his damn house. He let them, because he could hardly voice his reasoning for wanting to be alone; he couldn’t tell them how raw and vulnerable he felt coming home to an empty house that only served to remind him of what he’d lost.

The second he walked in, a smell hit him. He stopped in the doorway, holding up a fist to keep the others from advancing. He breathed in, and realised the smell probably wasn’t a dead body; it wasn’t meaty and putrid enough. He frowned, swallowing around the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the icy-hot chill of terror that was creeping up his skin and making his hands tremble around his gun. He didn’t know what he’d find, but images of Rust’s rotting body were floating before his eyes like some kind of sick premonition.

“Follow me,” he whispered, “stay fuckin’ quiet.”

He walked slowly as he could, trying to pretend this place was just some other battleground, and not the house that had been his home until so very recently.

He walked into the lounge room, and froze.

His chair was overturned, just like it’d been when he left, when the zombie had come for him through the unlocked front door. But the puddle of sticky vomit next to the chair hadn’t been there when he left. It was dried, enough that it was apparent it’d been there for a while. He did the maths. Thought about how long it’d been since he left, and since the disease had hit. He remembered how he'd gone to Arkansas looking for Rust, straight away.

Of course. Of course, the first thing he’d do would be to go and find Rust. And _of course,_ the first thing Rust would do would be to come back here and try to find him.

They’d missed each other.

The realisation hit him, hard. He staggered back, lifting a hand to his mouth as he imagined Rust finding an empty house, falling to his knees, vomiting.

“What’s going on?” Wichita breathed. “Marty?”

He turned on his heel and ran to the bedroom, crashing through the hallway and denting the walls. The bed was made, just the way he’d left it– but the pillow was gently dented, as if someone had laid their head on it, lay down for a moment. And the nightstand was bare, except for the lamp and a dog-eared copy of the Bible, courtesy of Rust’s need to thoroughly acquaint himself with the religions he intended to shit on. Marty dived towards the nightstand, tore open the drawers, threw the lamp to the side. He couldn’t find it. He couldn’t find that photograph anywhere.

“It’s gone,” he whispered, “it’s fucking gone,”

“What’s gone?” Columbus asked.

Marty couldn’t breathe. He knew what this meant. This meant that Rust was alive.

_This meant that Rust was alive._

He grabbed the lamp, hurled it at the wall. He threw back his head and laughed hysterically as it smashed, the glass slicing through the air. Bliss, hysterical and wondrous and all-consuming, filled him to the brim, pumping pure happiness through his veins, and he burst free from the dull stupor he’d been in for so long. The others jumped and hushed him, cautioning him about zombies hearing the noise, but he couldn’t stop laughing, even when he knew he was crying.

“He’s alive, he’s alive!” He spun around, grabbed Columbus by shoulders, and shook him violently. “He’s _alive!”_

Columbus’ mouth was moving, and he was saying something. But Marty didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything.

“Arkansas,” he laughed, tears streaming down his face, “we’re going to fucking Arkansas.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Houses clung to the side of the river like rotting teeth in a gum.

Rust could see it now; could see how the wild was reclaiming the vestiges that humanity had left behind. Vines creeping over balconies. Snakes slithering up wooden boards and making their homes beneath beds, like writhing masses of oil-slicked poison. Food rotting where it had been abandoned, greeted by flies and maggots and insects. There was something biologically inborn about it, as if the laws of the universe had dictated this was how the spoils of humankind would lay to rest. Cadaverine, putrescine, skatole, indole, sulphur; the only remaining legacies of the greatest species to ever dominate this planet.

The scents of a decomposing empire.

As he and the boys stood in Ellis’ old house, Rust looked out across the water and watched the way the early morning light bathed everything in gold and green. There was such peace out here, such tranquillity. He considered, for a moment, that perhaps the world was better off without humanity. As a species, they sure hadn’t done anything good for mother nature.

He wondered whether this was her doing. Whether she had taken the earth back for herself, and created this disease to rid herself of the plague of humans. But then he looked over at Ellis, who was sitting on the porch with a jumper in his hands; a woman’s jumper, made from soft cotton. Likely, it had been his mother’s. And Rust wondered about the difference between humankind and people. The species versus the individual. The group versus the person. Whether it was right that everyone had died, when surely it would’ve been enough to cull only a percentage. Only those that didn’t deserve life.

He reached out, placed a hand on Ellis’ shoulder.

Ellis didn’t speak, but he reached up, fingers curling around Rust’s, his soft white palm against the back of Rust’s scarred brown hand. They stood there like that, man and child. Listening to the quiet noises the river made, the whistling of the birds. If Rust hadn’t been holding a gun in his spare hand, it would’ve seemed the perfect picture of a perfect life.

There was poetry, out here, on the Arkansas River. Quiet, unspoken poetry. He could hear a swelling crescendo in the hum of the animals, the hush of the water…

The music of the natural world.

Rust felt nature reclaiming him, too. He kept his face shaved, but was growing his hair out again, keeping it loose around his face and tied back behind his neck. He felt more relaxed, these days; less strained, less fearful. He worked when there was work to be done. He ate when he was hungry. He drank when he was thirsty, but didn’t dare touch a drop of alcohol, not with the boys relying on him.

His past weighed heavy against him, often, but he wasn’t sad any more. He sketched Marty on notepads that he found, stray pieces of paper that floated around in the desolation. Fragments of his great love. Flashes of the man he’d come to adore. He was obsessed with capturing his likeness, which was hard when he only had one photograph and his memories. But he’d never stop trying, and it was fine, to struggle on like this. He was fine. He had his boys, he had those precious memories.

And he would love Marty until the earth reclaimed him, too.

 

***

 

They packed up what they could find in Ellis’ house, Rust keeping watch while the boys searched for memories, for weapons, and for household items they were short on. He let them take their time; better that they stay children, while they still could. Better that they relive good days, the times when they had been innocent.

It was then that he heard the noise.

It was the sound of an engine, no mistake about it. Car, most likely, though it could’ve been something bigger. He ran back inside the house, found the boys.

“Get down,” he murmured, staying calm for their sake, though his heart was beating too fast as memories of Carcosa surged into his mind’s eye hauntingly, “get down, now.”

They lay down on the floor, and he crouched near the window, shotgun ready.

“You think zombies can _drive_ now?” Neckbone hissed.

“Don’t reckon so,” Rust replied quietly, “but hell if I’m gonna trust anyone just ‘cause the planet’s crawling with rabid monsters.”

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Marty drove through Arkansas as quietly as he could, but he knew that the Hummer was likely making too much noise to cover anyway. Not that it mattered; any zombies out here would be so decomposed they’d be practically liquid. No way they were running after anything with any kind of determination.

“Marty…” Columbus began, his voice annoyingly serious. “We haven’t seen anyone yet. Maybe-”

“Don’t wanna hear it.” Marty flatly interrupted.

“He’s right,” Wichita added from the backseat, “I know this is difficult for you to hear, Marty, but maybe your boyfriend is-”

Marty slammed on the brakes.

He got out, closed the car door behind him so hard he was sure the glass would shatter. The moment he was out of the car, he turned his face to the sky, and pressed both hands against his eyes. He wanted to yell and scream and kick, but he had to stay calm. Rust was alive. He had to be. The photograph was missing, which meant someone had taken it– and that someone was Rust. Marty was sure.

He had to be sure.

Just as he was taking a long steady breath, preparing himself to turn around and tell Wichita to go fuck herself, he heard a noise. The snap of a twig, the hush of fabric.

He spun on his heel, gun ready.

And he froze.

A man was walking towards him. A wiry, athletic man in a loose white shirt, with brown skin and long hair tied back, loose strands framing his angular face. Marty’s first instinct was to confirm that he wasn’t a zombie, which was easy, because the guy was holding a sawed-off shotgun in his strong hands.

Then Marty looked at his face. Really looked.

And he dropped his gun.

It was Rust.

He blinked, sucked in a breath, because he was sure he was hallucinating. He was sure this couldn’t be real.

“…Marty?” Rust breathed, his voice unsteady, “Marty, is that... is that you, Marty?”

Marty was moving forward. Running, before he even knew it. Then, quicker than he realised, Rust was slamming into him, arms closing around him, hands at the small of his back. Marty held him, tight, so fucking tight, and his vision started blurring and swimming with tears. He was crying. He was fucking crying, and he was sure that this wasn’t real, that this was just some kind of dream-

He turned his face into Rust’s neck, sobbing. He breathed him in. The smell of nicotine, sharp and unpleasant and so damn familiar, and the _scent_ of him, unmistakable and real. He buried his fingers in that long hair, tugged. He felt those hands on his waist, and that was when it hit him- Rust was _here._ Rust was _real._

He pulled back, laughing. Rust was laughing too, tears making tracks down his muddy face, beaming wider than Marty had ever seen him smile before. One of Rust’s hands slid onto his neck, and Marty was anchored by that touch in a way he hadn’t been for so long.

“Marty,” he choked, grinning, “you son of a bitch, where’ve you been?”

“Coming to get your dumb ass, is where I’ve been,” Marty sniffed back. Rust laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Then, he leaned forward.

They kissed. Marty knew he’d never want for anything again.

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Marty opened his eyes slowly. He looked to his left, and saw an angel.

Rust was lying asleep on his side, the soft morning sun painting him in a gentle hue; like a Renaissance painting, as if he were a saint, a martyr, a divine messenger from somewhere better than this world. His hair had come undone in the night, spilling about his shoulders in lazy curls and waves. His eyelashes caught the light, shining gently beneath the hood of his eyelids. His lips were parted in his unconsciousness, and Marty reached out slowly, carefully, laying his hand next to Rust’s face. Just so he could feel soft breaths touch against his skin, just so he could know Rust was alive beside him.

Because that, now, was all that mattered.

If Marty were to close his eyes, he would remember Rust above him, warm beside candlelight as he moved his hips, tears still streaming down his beautiful face at the magic of it all, at the impossible miracle of their reunion. He would remember reaching up and wiping those tears away, kissing Rust with all the love he’d ever be able to feel. The taste of salt on his tongue, the softness of skin, the quiet breaths and hushed confessions, whimpered moans that had doubled as sobs.

But he didn’t want to close his eyes. Not for one second. He was suspended in this moment, this indescribably heavenly scene, and he wanted to be awake for every piece of time he was allowed to spend with this beautiful man. _His_ beautiful man, if he could ever believe he was worthy of a claim over Rustin Cohle. At the end of the world, he wasn't sure he needed that claim; it was enough to simply be with him, to exist beside him. He realised, now, that should've been all that he'd ever needed.

Outside the open window, the river sang its quiet song. The sun rose. Rust breathed.

All was right with the world.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Hannah; thank you for inspiring me with your writing, you are a true wordsmith~


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